Читать книгу The Golden Treasury - Unknown - Страница 52

     No longer mourn for me when I am dead

     Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell

     Give warning to the world, that I am fled

     From this vile world, with vilest worms to dwell;

     Nay, if you read this line, remember not

     The hand that writ it; for I love you so,

     That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot

     If thinking on me then should make you woe.

     O if, I say, you look upon this verse

     When I perhaps compounded am with clay

     Do not so much as my poor name rehearse,

     But let your love even with my life decay;

     Lest the wise world should look into your moan,

     And mock you with me after I am gone.